Striking Out (14 page)

I was just doing my final cold rinse, singing a country and western song, when Andy came into the bathroom and stuck his head around the shower curtain. I splashed him with icy water.

“Being Presbyterian again, I see,” he said.

“I’ll be cool all day, wait and see.”

“Well, when you’ve finished mortifying your flesh or whatever it is you’re doing, there’s someone on the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“I didn’t ask.”

I got out of the tub and wrapped one towel around my hair and another around my waist. I picked up the kitchen extension.

“Kate Henry,” I said.

“Good morning, Ms. Henry, I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

He had a pleasant voice. Probably some real estate salesman after my house again.

“Who is this?” I asked, irritated.

“My name is Tip Keenan. I’m returning your call.”

“Oh, Mr. Keenan, I’m sorry.”

Andy looked startled. I sat down at the table and fumbled for a pen and pad.

“I was calling because I understand you placed an ad looking for a woman named Mary Agnes Gabel something.”

“Carlson,” he said.

“Right, Carlson. Why I was calling was, I think I know who that is, but she disappeared last week. Some of us are worried about her, and I thought you might know where she’s gone.”

Andy grabbed my pen and wrote something on the pad. I craned my head to read it—“
Tip
Keenan?”—then nodded. He wrote again—“Old friend. Mention my name.” I interrupted Keenan, who seemed to be reluctant to give me any information.

“Mr. Keenan. I’ve just discovered we have a friend in common. Andy Munro.”

“Andy? For God’s sake! Say hello when you see him.”

“You can say it yourself,” I said, and handed Andy the phone and listened to his half of the conversation.

“Tip, how are you? . . . Yeah, a long time . . . No, I’m fine now . . . He’s fine, too. He’s been cleared. They’ll be announcing it soon . . . No, I’m not involved in that case . . . No, but it was practically in our backyard . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Well, Kate was the one who talked to her . . . Really? . . .”

I began making faces at him. He smiled and kept listening.

“He does? . . . I’m not sure it would be appropriate . . . Oh, he’s already talked to Stimac? . . . I don’t see any problem, then . . . Broadview and Danforth . . . Twenty minutes? . . . Why not?”

I was making mad what’s-going-on gestures. He just shook his head while he gave directions to our house. Then he hung up.

“Better put on the coffee, Miss Katie. Company’s coming.”

“Tip Keenan? How come?”

“Not just Keenan. He’s bringing someone else with him.”

“Who?”

“A mystery guest from out of town,” he teased.

“Who?”

“A young man named Pete Carlson. He’s looking for his mother.”

“Maggie’s son?”

“So maybe you’d like to get dressed. Unless you plan to receive your callers topless.”

I headed for the bedroom.

“You asked him, you can do the breakfast dishes,” I said over my shoulder. “It’s your light exercise for the day.”

I was dressed, the house was respectable, and the coffee was done by the time they arrived. Andy answered the door and brought them upstairs. I waited in the living room.

Tip Keenan came in first. He was what the French call
beau laid
, a man so homely he was attractive, not the least because of the ease with which he inhabited his skin.

He had the squooshed potato face of caricature Irishmen, with startling blue eyes and incongruously delicate eyelashes. His body was rangy, with big hands and feet. His suit looked slept-in and his tie was askew. I liked him immediately.

Pete Carlson followed him, a tall young man who couldn’t be anything but American. With his seersucker suit, blue button-down shirt, and rep tie, he was straight out of
GQ
. His blond hair was neatly cut, his eyes were blue. His smile was crooked, but his teeth were straight.

“Hi, I’m Pete,” he said, smiling in the way of a young man used to charming women, and holding out his hand. I shook it. He had a firm grip.

“Sit down, please.”

Keenan folded himself onto the couch. Carlson took Andy’s favourite armchair.

“I understand you know my mother,” he said.

“A little bit,” I said.

“You know her better than the rest of the family lately,” he said. “Is it true she’s a bag lady?”

“For want of a better term, yes.”

He laughed, an inappropriate and grating sound.

“I can’t see it.”

“I know it must be terribly upsetting to you,” I said.

“No, it’s just that Mother was awfully fond of her comfort. It’s hard to picture her living in a cardboard box.”

“I doubt it was a matter of choice,” Andy said. “I’ll get the coffee.”

He left the room and I sat down on the couch.

“I was sorry to hear about your father’s death,” I said.

Pete’s face changed to an expression of sorrow.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. It’s been a pretty shocking few days. First, my father is dead, then I find out that my mother is not only still alive but might be a murderer.”

He shook his head.

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“The police just want her as a possible witness at the moment,” Andy added, coming back into the room with a tray.

“At the moment,” Pete repeated, with emphasis. “The way I hear it, they think she did it.”

“You probably know more than we do,” I said. “Tell me, when did your father come here, do you know?”

“Last week. Tuesday.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said one of his crazy ads had finally paid off.”

Andy handed him a coffee and he reached for the sugar.

“This was the ad you placed,” I said to Keenan, who nodded. I turned back to Pete.

“You mean he had placed them elsewhere?” I asked.

“All over the world. Ever since she left, finding her has been an obsession with him.”

“But it’s been how long?”

“Ten, eleven years,” he said, leaning back with his coffee. Elwy sniffed at his shiny loafer, but Carlson nudged him out of the way. The cat moved on to Keenan, who scratched his head.

“We all tried to convince him to forget her,” Pete continued. “I know I did. I mean, it wasn’t like he was looking non-stop. But every June, right around their anniversary, he’d get all fired up again. He has spent literally tens of thousands of dollars hiring detectives all over the United States and Canada. Even Europe. Tens of thousands, maybe more. He got close a couple of times, too.”

“So he was really concerned about her,” I said. This didn’t sound like the man Maggie had talked about.

“He just had to know what had happened,” Pete said. “He didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. She just disappeared.”

“It must have been tough on him.” Andy said.

“To be frank, I thought he was wrong.” Pete said. “I thought he should just get on with life and forget about her. Either she had been kidnapped and murdered or she had run out on him. What’s the difference? Bottom line, she was gone. There were lots of other women waiting to take her place.”

“What about your brothers and your sister? How did they feel about this obsession of his?”

“We don’t hear from Terry anymore.” he said. “She left home right after high school graduation. She’s been in California ever since.”

“She’s the oldest? And you’re the second, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you still live in Milwaukee?”

“I’m vice-president of marketing at the family firm. Neil’s studying to be a lawyer back home in Wisconsin. John, he’s named after my dad. He’s, well, Johnny’s still young, but he’s coming around.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been a bit of a fuck-up, pardon the expression. He dropped out of college his freshman year to go to Chicago and play drums in a band. He’s caused my father a lot of grief.”

“He’s the youngest?”

“He’s nineteen. He was just nine when she left. I was fifteen, Neil was fourteen. Him and me are close to Dad, but Johnny was a mama’s boy. Dad spent a fortune on shrinks. Things were pretty rocky between them for a while. But things have been getting better. Dad has really been making an effort to understand him. Last week he even went to Chicago on his way here, trying to work things out. I don’t know what happened, though.”

“Does he know about your father’s death?” Andy asked.

“Not yet. I talked to his girlfriend, and she says she hasn’t heard from him in days. I told her the news and left the number of the hotel, but he hasn’t called. Terry and Neil are flying in tonight.”

“It must be a shock for all of you.” I said, feeling uncomfortable. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is. Just tell me more about her. Anything you know that could help Mr. Keenan and us find her. Anything at all.”

“I’d like to help.” I said, “but I’m not sure I can.”

“Let me ask you something. Did she ever mention her kids?”

“She told me a bit about her past. She didn’t make it sound very happy. According to her, your father was abusive, and she had no choice but to escape.”

“That’s crazy.” Pete interrupted. “He gave her everything. She had a beautiful house with a pool and gardens and staff to run it. She had a mink coat, charge accounts at all the best stores. She had a Mercedes, for God’s sake.”

He got up from his chair and paced the room.

“They had a great marriage, anyone could see that. He has, had, a temper on him, that’s for sure, and sometimes he drank a bit, but hell, no more than anyone else. Just ask their friends. They were the happiest couple at the club, for God’s sake.”

“You were there.” I conceded. “All I know is what she told me. I didn’t ask her for proof.”

He sat down again, reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, and took out a handful of photographs.

“You want proof? Here’s proof,” he said, thrusting them at me. “Does this look like an unhappy marriage to you? Is this a husband who doesn’t love his wife? Are these children you’d want to abandon?”

I took the photos and looked through them, passing them to Andy one by one. I saw an elegant, carefree woman. Her fine blonde hair shone in perpetual sunlight, and her smile was merry.

“She was beautiful,” I said.

The last in the stack was the same one that T.C. had found, except the husband wasn’t torn out. I looked for a long time at his picture, stocky and confident, boyish good looks still evident through the middle-aged flesh. His son was a youthful double.

“That was taken in the living room at home,” Pete said. “That’s an original Picasso over the mantel, by the way.”

I passed the photos back. Who knows, maybe she really was nuts. Maybe she did skip out on the happiest family in Wisconsin, if not the Free World.

“You obviously miss her very much, no matter what you say.”

Pete shrugged, out of words, and bravado, at last.

“I just want to find her,” he said. It was almost a whisper. “Please help me.”

“What are you going to do now?” Andy asked me, once Tip Keenan had taken Pete Carlson away.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what’s the next move, Sherlock?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you, Kate. You’re going to look for Maggie.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I recognize the signs. The same way I noticed that you neglected to tell my colleagues what you knew about Keenan’s ad when they were here this morning.”

“I told you already. It just slipped my mind.”

He stared me down, albeit with a smile.

“Like my old dad used to tell me, never try to kid a kidder. But I’ll give you a break this time. I’ve asked Tip to come back later on without the son. He’ll be here at five, and we’ll find out what he knows. Then you’ll call Walt Stimac and tell him about the ad. Fair?”

“You’re okay with not calling him until then?”

He shrugged.

“It probably won’t be a news flash for him. But on principle, after we talk to Tip, you’ve got to call him.”

“That’s a promise,” I said.

We had lunch, then Andy went to lie down. I went for a walk.

AA Adult Videos was in a converted three-storey brick residence on Broadview. In its most recent previous incarnation it had been a knitting shop, I remembered, with sad old faded pattern books and dusty-looking African violets in the storefront windows. Now the windows were covered with newspaper to keep the store’s interior hidden from prying eyes.

The door opened with a cheerful tinkle, no doubt a remnant of the store’s more innocent past.

Because of the papered windows, the room was in a strange half-light, brightened, if that’s the right word, by fluorescent ceiling fixtures which cast cold, flickering light over metal display racks arranged in rows.

The stock seemed to be arranged by subject, the way it is in my regular video store, except the categories here looked like bondage, big boobs, and buns of steel instead of comedy, action, and drama.

I suddenly remembered one sports department lunch during which Jeff Glebe had regaled us with tales of a visit to Amsterdam with the Junior Hockey Team. He had been in a sex emporium of some sort and had been astounded to find a section of videos dealing with carnal relations with geese. I checked, quickly, but geese did not warrant their own section here. Not even donkeys or German shepherds. Probably wanted to keep the animal rights protesters from picketing the joint.

I sensed someone else in the room and spun around. A man stood in the curtained doorway to the back of the store.

“Help you?” he asked.

It was the gravelly voice I’d heard that morning on the phone. His person didn’t match the menace the voice promised. In fact, he looked downright mild, a big stooped guy with tall curly hair streaked with grey, wearing slacks with suspenders, a striped shirt, and bedroom slippers. He had half-glasses on a cord around his neck and peered at me through smoke from the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

I introduced myself, and, following my hunch, explained that I was a friend of Maggie’s. He softened a bit.

“I haven’t seen her lately.” he said.

“Neither have I. That’s why I’m here. You’re well known for your kindness to the homeless people in the neighbourhood.”

He shrugged.

“Been there myself, once or twice.”

“I was interested in finding another person too, actually.” I said, tiptoeing. “Hoss. You know him?”

“Could be.”

“It’s just that he left a message giving your number, and I was hoping I could get in touch with him.”

“Yeah. He gets calls here.”

“I phoned this morning. Has there been anyone else lately?”

“Not since last week. There were a couple more then.”

“I guess you don’t remember who they were from.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. How’s it any business of yours?”

“I think it will help me find Maggie. I’m afraid she might be in danger.”

“Because of that body they found in the alley?”

“Well, that’s partly why I want to find her. The murdered man is probably the husband she ran away from.”

“You with the police?”

“No, not at all. I work for a newspaper. The
Planet.
I’m here because of Maggie. Nothing to do with anything else.”

“I don’t talk to the press.”

“No, this isn’t for a story. I’m just a sportswriter.”

A dim bulb seemed to go on over his head.

“You write the baseball, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve read your columns.”

“So, you see, this has nothing to do with that,” I said, rushing, trying to race by his resistance.

“Come in here,” he said, parting the doorway curtain.

I followed him into the back apartment. It was all one room, half living room, half kitchen, all depressing. On my left I could see the back door and stairs going up to the second floor.

Ed went over to the kitchen area. A small refrigerator with a rounded top squatted next to a table, which held a two-ring hotplate and a coffeemaker.

“I’ve got some coffee here. You want some?”

“Sure, that would be nice,” I said.

“The name’s Ed. Sit down.”

I looked around. Against the wall to the left was a sagging couch, covered with an old pale green chenille bedspread worn smooth in patches. There was also a moth-eaten red velvet armchair. The only other places to sit were a pair of chairs, at a cracked Formica table, with rusty chrome legs and torn vinyl seats repaired with duct tape.

A mangy-looking brown and white dog lifted his head from a green-and-orange braided rug on the floor, bared his teeth, and growled at me half-heartedly.

“Shut up, Martha,” he said.

“That’s an unusual name for a dog,” I said.

“Named her for my ex-wife. I’m out of milk. Whitener all right?”

“Black’s fine.”

I sat gingerly on the couch. The dog got up and came to sniff all the good cat smells on my jeans, tail wagging feebly. Ed took a couple of mugs and went through a door into a bathroom with black tiles and rinsed them out at a pink sink.

He poured and handed me a cup. It was lukewarm and bitter.

“Tell me about Hoss,” I said. “How come he’s called that?”

“He’s from out west, I guess. Wears that hat all the time. The cowboy boots. That’s what he calls himself, anyways.”

The man in the laneway. Mr. Bottle.

“What’s he like?”

“All right, I guess. Least he is most of the time. When the welfare comes in he gets a little hard to handle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I guess you could say he’s pretty much out of control. But once he’s drunk it all up, he’s fine again. I just don’t let him in when he’s drinking.”

“You mean he’s violent, or what?”

“Well, he did kind of bust the place up the one time. That was when I told him not to bother coming around when he’s got the drink in him, and he don’t. Hell, when he’s got the juice, he don’t even care where he is.”

“Is that where he is now? Off on a bender?”

“Could be. Welfare money should have run out by now, but last time I seen him, he was flashing a big roll of bills.”

“Do you have any idea where he got the money? When was this, anyway?”

“Week ago, maybe.”

“Did he say anything about it?”

“He said there was more where that come from.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

“You said he had calls last week, too. Are you sure you don’t remember who they were from?”

“One guy left a message. I’ve still got it somewheres.”

He got up and went to the front of the store, and came back a minute later peering through his little glasses at a dog-eared receipt book.

“You’re not looking to make trouble for anyone, are you?” he asked.

“No, honestly. I’m just trying to find Maggie.”

“Well, the one looking for Hoss was called Keenan. He phoned again, couple of days ago. Here’s the number.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it. What about the other call?”

“That came in when he was here. He talked to the guy himself.”

“Do you think it was the same guy?”

“Sounded different, to me.”

“Did you hear what they talked about?”

“Maybe they was setting up a meeting.”

“Did you hear where?”

“No. I was with a customer. But Hoss got in a real good mood and left right after.”

“This was what day?”

“Tuesday, maybe. Maybe Wednesday. I don’t know.”

The bell tinkled in the front room.

“I got a customer.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I can wait.”

“Don’t think I got anything more to say,” he said. “You can use the back door.”

Dismissed, I went out the back door, which led to a small yard in which a rusty old Chevrolet was parked. A cracked concrete path led to the street. I wondered if Ed was concerned for my reputation or afraid I’d scare his customers away. Maybe he thought I’d give the place a bad name.